The Tide Ebbs and Flows
by captainseptimus
Summary: When Cuddy attends a medical conference, someone from her past reappears. How will it affect House and Cuddy?
1. An Argument for Imperialism

**Title:** The Tide Ebbs and Flows  
 **Pairing:** Cuddy/OC  
 **Rating:** M, for language and sexual situations  
 **Synopsis:** When Cuddy attends a medical conference, someone from her past reappears. How will it affect House and Cuddy?  
 **Disclaimer:** These characters are not mine.  
 **Notes:** Written as an examination of House and Cuddy's fraught relationship, this also serves as writing practice and therapy. This uses events from Season 4, but does not follow it.

* * *

THE apparition of these faces in a crowd;  
Petals on a wet, black bough.  
 _-Ezra Pound, "In a Station of the Metro"_

But out of that swinishness there was bound to come reaction, and out of the reaction there was bound to flow a desire to re-examine the whole national pretension-to turn on the light, to reject old formulae, to think things out anew and in terms of reality.  
 _-H.L. Mencken, "The American Novel"_

* * *

 **One: An Argument for Imperialism**

House was humming "The Imperial March" on his way to Cuddy's office. He had been testier than usual this morning because (a) his patient was dying, (b) his potential fellows were all idiots, and (c) his leg was throbbing. He thought that his leg pain might probably be due to both (a) and (b), but it didn't really matter right now. He needed Cuddy's approval for a medical procedure, and he was determined to get it. Besides, he found it odd that she hasn't nagged him all morning to get him to fulfill his quota of clinic hours. And, well, that just means he hasn't seen her all day-or at least, _parts_ of her (which he told himself lately).

As he limped doggedly across the clinic to Cuddy's office, her assistant immediately sprang up to stop him. She told him feebly, "Doctor House, Doctor Cuddy's-"

"Don't care what she said. I need to go inside. Right now." He didn't even glance once at Cuddy's assistant. He chose, instead, to open the doors to her office. An unwelcome sight was now seated on _her_ chair behind _her_ desk. It was Dr. Taylor, who was balding, in his mid-50s, and was usually Cuddy's stand-in when she was away.

"Where's Cuddy?" he told the older man gruffly, gripping his cane. This wasn't good. He and Dr. Taylor never agreed on anything, and maybe that was precisely why Cuddy constantly chose him as her substitute.

"Oh, she hasn't told you?" there was more than a tinge of malice in Dr. Taylor's tone. He leaned back on her chair. If this was Cuddy, House would be hoping that she would place her crossed legs on her desk, as she was wont to do at times. But she wasn't here. "She's away in a medical conference for th-"

House nodded several times and made gestures with his free hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. The deets aren't important. I need a liver biopsy of my patient, blah-blah-blah. Will you sign off on the procedure or not?"

Dr. Taylor leaned on Cuddy's desk and flexed his fingers. "Hmm. Let's see. Your patient who's dying as we speak? Fill out the forms first, and then explain why." Taylor was a smug son-of-a-bitch, House thought.

"Jesus, you're a pain in the ass. Typically, when I use the term 'sign off', I don't actually mean that there would be _actual_ signing. Let me tell you how this usually goes," his tone was now deliberately condescending. He was practically talking to a preschooler. Or a senile old man, since that was more appropriate. "I go to Cuddy's office, I yell, she yells, and it depends on her mood if she says yes or no. Capisce?"

"Doctor Cuddy already told me how it goes," he says, mimicking House. "Since she left _me_ in charge, I won't approve anything unless you fill out the forms. Have any of your many fellows fill them out for you, I don't care. It's a prerequisite for _every_ procedure. I'll decide then." It was a standoff. An unstoppable force meets an immoveable object. And House grudgingly appreciated that.

"Oh, you're good. I gotta tell you, though, that all this bureaucratic crap will increase the chances of my patient dying," he emphasized. He didn't have time for this.

"I'm well-aware. Come back to my office once you have the forms and an explanation. Good day, Dr. House." Taylor was being dismissive. And it made House closer to irate by the second. What's more infuriating was that he was delusional.

"Wait. Pronoun confusion. This isn't your office, and it won't be anytime soon." It really was Cuddy's office; Taylor was merely acting as a temp.

"Good _day_ , Dr. House." Taylor was obviously threatened.

As House strides across Cuddy's office, he turns to Dr. Taylor who had his arms crossed. "Just because mommy let you babysit for a while doesn't mean that _you're_ in control."

* * *

Wilson was trying to comfort a patient of his on the phone. They had been talking for more than an hour, and Wilson was trying to reassure the man. Without warning, House opens his door unceremoniously (like usual), looking gleeful.

"Wilson! Darth Vader's dead!" House announces loudly as he slams the door. Wilson winces. As always, House had perfect timing.

"Could you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Vernon? A patient from the psych ward's roaming around my floor. _Again_." Wilson glared at House. "Now, remember to take them and call me if anything becomes painful. Have a good day." He places the handset of his office phone carefully on the cradle. He never knew what to expect from House. Never.

House sits on the chair in front of Wilson's desk. "The Empire will not strike back. For now."

Wilson chuckles, amusement replacing irritation. "What the hell are you talking about, House?"

"I didn't know Cuddy would be away on a medical conference." House bends down to place his head on his cane.

So this was about Cuddy. "She sent out a memo a week ago. Not that you read those."

House takes Wilson's statement and dissects it. So, Cuddy sent an official memo a week ago, knowing that House would never read hospital memos by choice. _Interesting_. "Isn't it odd that she never told us?" It was odd. The three of them weren't exactly the best of friends, but Cuddy always made it a point to inform House and Wilson about pertinent information. Was she hiding something?

"She did. Well, not us. She told me on Monday." Wilson wasn't avoiding looking at House. Odd indeed.

"And you didn't tell me?" House exclaimed. "What's with all the sly dog antics? Is she really away on official business or is she on vacation?"

"She's in a medical conference and she'll be back on Tuesday. I didn't tell you because she seemed to be looking forward to it." Wilson merely shrugged. He was a bastard, House concluded. What other secrets did these two keep from him?

"Well, that's a shame," House leans back on the chair. "If she was actually on vacation, that would've been more fun. So you didn't tell me because she's all giddy about it?"

"Yes, House. I didn't want you messing around with her hotel reservations or anything else, because she genuinely wants to attend. She deserves a break. Not that it's actually a break," Wilson justifies.

Realization dawns on House and he sits up straight. "Wait. You're protecting her from me," he says, pointing his cane at Wilson. "I'm flattered that you think of me that way. You have such high expectations. Does this mean you're trying to get into her pants?" House is suspicious. Wilson had invited Cuddy to a play and an art exhibit before.

Wilson gets flustered at his statement. "Just because I want Cuddy to enjoy the conference, doesn't mean that I want to sleep with her."

House stops twirling his cane. "Of course you want to sleep with her! Every straight guy, lesbian, or bisexual wants to sleep with her. For instance, I hate her yet I want to have my way with her in bed. You, on the other hand, want her whipping you-"

"I get it!" Wilson cuts House off. His face was pink now, as were his ears. He has to agree, though. Everyone, himself included, has a fantasy or two about Cuddy. "Let's be clear, House. I didn't tell you about the conference not because I want her to be wife number four. If you've read her memo, she didn't really divulge any details. But we had lunch four days ago, and I asked her about the conference. She was really happy about it. Excited. I've never seen her so…relaxed. She looked so-I decided not to tell you, obviously."

"She looked so what, Wilson?" Oh, for Christ's sake.

Wilson was struggling with words. He actually meant to say that his boss looked so beautiful, but House would take it the wrong way. "So serene! I thought she was really pretty! That doesn't mean I did what I did because I was trying to sleep with her!" Wilson blurted out.

House didn't know what to feel. His best friend just used the terms 'serene' and 'pretty' to describe not just any woman, but Cuddy. His best friend chose not to mention a particular detail about Cuddy. Cuddy told Wilson of her whereabouts. "You're attracted to her!" House accused. "You're actually attracted to her! To Cuddy!"

"What?! No-yes-no!" Wilson was shaking his head furiously. "House, god damn it! Stop screwing with my mind!"

A yes was sandwiched between two noes, House noted. "Did you tell anyone else?" House said nonchalantly.

Wilson was a bit calmer now. "Of course not! If I did, you'd find out eventually."

House decided to ignore his friend's suspicious behavior for a moment. "Where's the conference?"

"If I tell you that it's in Vegas, would you even believe me?" Wilson begins.

Wilson was being difficult. Time to try another tactic, House thought. "She didn't invite any other doctor?" He pouted. Cuddy didn't even invite _him._

"The conference is quite specific. I mean, no one would like to go to a convention on managing a hospital. Except those who actually do it." Wilson shrugged again. _Bingo_ , House thought. Time to close the deal.

House cringed. "God, they'd probably have doctors with MBAs. They're not _actual_ doctors, Wilson. They're managers with medical degrees. So. Lame." House rolls his eyes.

"She's presenting twice, though." Wilson perked up. House leaned back on his chair, closed his eyes, and let his cane fall on the carpeted floor. "She was telling me about her paper on-"

 _Snor_.

House pretended to 'wake up'. "Oh, was I asleep? I don't _care_ about the stupid conference." He lifts his cane from the floor and stands up. "Wanna get a snack?"

"I have a patient in twenty minutes. Don't you have a patient?"

House moves towards Wilson's office door. "Ugh. Why does everyone have a stick up their ass?" He purposely leaves the door open, just because he knows how Wilson gets when he does that.

As he walks to his own office, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Now that he's narrowed down what kind of medical conference Cuddy's attending, he can google where she's at. He whistles "The Imperial March".


	2. Ghosts

THE apparition of these faces in a crowd;  
Petals on a wet, black bough.  
 _-Ezra Pound, "In a Station of the Metro"_

But out of that swinishness there was bound to come reaction, and out of the reaction there was bound to flow a desire to re-examine the whole national pretension-to turn on the light, to reject old formulae, to think things out anew and in terms of reality.  
 _-H.L. Mencken, "The American Novel"_

* * *

 **Two: Ghosts**

It was a good day, she thought. It would be a good couple of days. Chicago wasn't as chilly as she had been expecting, the hotel room was luxurious (provided for by the conference organizers), and, though it wasn't exactly a break, she would temporarily be away from House. As an added bonus, she would also be presenting at the five-day conference. Cuddy had prepared a paper and presentation on community-focused medical care for private hospitals, taking the free clinic of Princeton-Plainsboro as a case study. She would be presenting another paper on power dynamics as a challenge for female leadership on the third day.

It was exhilarating, to say the least. She had been invited to this particular conference in Chicago nearly a year ago. What made this conference different, though, was its focus on innovations in hospital management. It even included presentations from biotech firms courting particular hospitals for potential tie-ups.

"Good morning!" a blonde, probably a member of the logistics team of the conference, greeted her as she walked towards the registration area. The area had five sleek desks with laptops, flyers, and brochures on top of each. She approached the lady and placed her briefcase and purse on the floor.

"Hi. Good morning. I'm Dr. Lisa Cuddy from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Just confirming my registration."

The lady immediately looked at the laptop screen as she placed her fingertips on the touchpad.

"Doctor…Cuddy? Let me check the computer's database so I could give you your ID card," she looked at Cuddy. "In the meantime, please have some conference brochures. This will only take a minute." the lady began typing furiously on the keyboard.

"Okay. Thanks." Cuddy gets herself the conference brochures and begins to leaf through the one for today. She scans the descriptions and recognizes the names and photos of the different doctors. After nearly a minute, the lady speaks to her again.

"Doctor Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. We've already confirmed your slot. You'll be presenting at 1.30 pm today, right after lunch." Cuddy smiles at the woman gratefully. The lady hands her a 3"x5" plastic identification card with her photo, name, and hospital printed on the front.

Cuddy wears the thin black lanyard around her neck and arranges her hair. "Today's at hall B, right? And the one I'll be presenting on Sunday will be at hall F. Would you mind telling me where conference hall F is?"

"Conference hall F is on the second floor of the hotel. As for your presentation, yes, Doctor Cuddy. Hall B. If you could come fifteen to twenty minutes before one thirty, we would highly appreciate that. We do apologize for cutting your lunch short."

"All right. I'll be there twenty minutes before I start. And don't worry about it. Thank you for your assistance. May I ask for your name?"

The lady smiles at her brightly. "You're welcome, Doctor Cuddy. You can call me Marie."

"Thank you again, Marie." Cuddy gives Marie a warm smile back.

She walks in the hallway as she reads the brochure, feeling glad and relieved because she has plenty of time. Of course, she's arrived early-twenty minutes early. Hordes will probably arrive in ten minutes. As she walks across the hallway, she's only vaguely aware of her surroundings. She doesn't notice a man waiting outside the doors of a conference room. She walks past him, taking a relaxed pace as she does so.

"Lise?" All of a sudden, she's on alert. She stops walking and turns toward where the voice was coming from. She has a clue so as to who just called her name. No one calls her 'Lise'-at least not anymore. And because she knows there's only _one_ man who calls her that, she begins to feel a weight in her stomach. She's sure it's him. It could only be him.

She sets her gaze on the figure that she was oblivious to mere seconds ago. She blanches at the sight. It _is_ him.

He's changed; he's older, like she is. His dark hair isn't as long anymore. Instead, he's opted for a sensible haircut. It bothers her that she secretly approves of how the haircut suits his face. The lines on it are deeper, especially the ones showing on the corners of his eyes, in between his brows, and around his mouth. Yes, it suits him. His eyes are still the same shade of blue.

"Phillip?" she says softly. She's afraid that if she says his name too loudly, this would all disappear. What's worse, she's afraid that if she says his name too loudly, this would _actually_ happen-that it would be real. The only choice she has, she decides, is to compose herself. "Why are you…here?" she says a little louder, with a mix of wonder, puzzlement, and surprise. As well as a _healthy_ cocktail of hurt and guilt.

"Good morning to you, too," he lowers his head a bit as he smiles at her knowingly and narrows his eyes. He's amused.

Immediately, she is chastened. Immediately, she feels guiltier. "Sorry." she slightly mumbles. She refuses to look at his face, then. She fiddles with the pearls on her neck instead, clears her throat, and inadvertently crumples the conference primers she was clutching.

"You should finish reading that," he says. She blinks and looks at his face. His arms are crossed. "That'll get you your answer. Anyway, I've got to go. I'm needed in fifteen minutes."

Before she even has a chance to answer, he's _gone_.

* * *

She can't concentrate.

On _anything_.

It's not as if she isn't attempting to. In fact, it's taking a prodigious amount of effort in her attempt. She can't relax; she can't focus. It was a shame, though. She had agreed to attend the conference because she was also interested in the presentations. She tried taking notes, hoping that it would redirect her attention, but she was failing.

After Phillip abruptly left her in the hallway earlier, she was left shocked. The last time they met, he was leaving for Europe. She even kept tabs on him for years, but then, Gregory House had an infarction. As one man left her life, another one reentered. Now, Phillip was back.

It was…unsettling. She stopped keeping tabs on Phillip partly because of her duties as dean and, well, there was House. Another reason was that she didn't like dwelling on the past. Or, more precisely, she didn't want to.

It hurt too much. She was sure that she hurt him a lot more than he did. That she let him go, that she let their relationship go, that hurt her. And she had been in love with him, very much so. But he was asking her to leave what she had been so focused on building. If she left for Europe to begin again, to rebuild everything that had been leading to what she was doing now, she would be sacrificing everything.

So she left him before he left for Europe.

And now, her ex-husband was back.


	3. Old Habits

**Notes:** I should be unambiguous about this work: this is not a House/Cuddy story. I'm writing this story to examine their relationship instead. So, if you're not comfortable with the Cuddy/OC pairing, please stop reading now.

Also, I've never written explicitly 'happy' endings for my works, fan fiction or otherwise.

* * *

THE apparition of these faces in a crowd,  
Petals on a wet black bough  
 _-Ezra Pound, "In a Station of the Metro"_

But out of that swinishness there was bound to come reaction, and out of the reaction there was bound to flow a desire to re-examine the whole national pretension-to turn on the light, to reject old formulae, to think things out anew and in terms of reality.  
 _-H.L. Mencken, "The American Novel"_

* * *

 **Three: Old Habits**

She was fiddling with her kani salad while trying to review her paper for the afternoon sessions. She wasn't- _couldn't_ do much, even if she tried. It really didn't help that Phillip was here doing god-knows-what. She was so nervous about her presentation that she decided to slip out of the last morning session into the dining hall, hoping to calm herself down. Cuddy felt frustrated with herself and with her reactions. How the hell could she present in an hour? She grits her teeth and proceeds to tear the crab meat apart with her fork.

"Hi. Is this seat taken?" some guy asked. If this was any other day under the usual circumstances, she would have been open to some flirting. The guy who seemed to look like a doctor was handsome. He was looking at her expectantly, tray of food in his hands. But she couldn't do this. Or anything, really.

"Uh-" Cuddy began. That's when she saw Phillip beside the guy.

"Actually, it is." Phillip said this slowly, deliberately. He set his own tray on the table and looked at Cuddy. "Thanks for saving me a seat, Lisa. The lunch buffet's looking promising." He pulled the chair beside her own and promptly sat down. As he was arranging his napkin on his lap, the other guy clears his throat.

"Sorry about that. I-I didn't mean any harm." The guy was sheepish and was already turning pink. He walked away, leaving Cuddy and Phillip alone.

"You know, you really should eat something. I was reading the brochure earlier this morning. You're needed in…" Phillip lifted his right wrist and checked his watch. "Forty minutes." He places both his hands on the table and begins to pick up his silverware.

"What?!" In an instant, her panic threatens to overtake her. This was not good. "Oh, god. I completely forgot about the prep period." Cuddy rubs a hand over her face and closes her eyes.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out more than you already are." Phillip's voice was gentle. Cuddy hears him place something (or some things) on the table. She reluctantly opens her eyes and sees two goblets of red wine, a banana, and a glass filled with ice in front of her plate. She sees him eating his first plateful of food.

"Eat the whole banana first then have some wine. You'll probably have a headache soon so I brought some ice," he tells her as he eats.

After all these years, he still knows her so well. She is bothered yet again. She picks up the banana and peels it. He stops eating and fixes his gaze on her. He's waiting for her next move. She breaks off a piece of the fruit and swiftly chews.

"And here I thought you were going to put the banana in your mouth." he muses, disappointment apparent in his voice. Phillip looks at Cuddy and smirks. She breaks into laughter and he joins in; he can't help it. She feels the tension subside, so she breaks off a larger piece of the fruit and chews it again.

"How'd you know that I was stressed?" she asks him thoughtfully.

"Lisa, we haven't…seen or talked to each other in a decade," it was then that she sees a vulnerability in him. He continues, "You thought I was in Europe. And now I'm here." he shrugs and looks away from her. He's onto his second plateful now. She feels a pang of something she can't quite name in her heart.

"I can't have wine," she tells him as she finishes the last piece of the banana. She begins wrapping three ice cubes in tissue paper and places the makeshift ice pack on her left temple. "I'll screw up the presentation."

"Of course you can. We both know wine helps you a lot when you're like _this_. Eat some of your salad and drink. You'll be looser when you have some alcohol in your system. You'll kick ass with the presentation _if_ you're relaxed." he says this knowingly.

Determined to settle her nerves, Cuddy places her crude ice pack on her right hand to soothe her right temple. She holds the fork in her left and takes a few bites of her salad. "I still can't have _that_ much."

Phillip firmly holds the goblet in his hand. "Figured as much. This," he raises the goblet, "is for me."

Cuddy follows suit and places her fork and ice pack on the table. She clinks her wine glass with his, and drinks. He's caught off guard momentarily, so he sips his wine instead. He smirks as he watches her finish her wine. She wipes her mouth delicately with her napkin, holds both her fork and ice pack, and continues eating.

He waits for the right moment when he sees her settle down. "What's the best thing about focusing care on the community for a private hospital?" he sips more of his wine. She puts the ice pack on her temple again.

"A lot of people say that what I'm going to tell you is full of platitudes, but a private hospital has a duty to provide care, especially for a community."

"Why? Private hospitals aren't funded by the community." he continues watching her.

"Yes, but the building of the hospital has to be initially approved by the community."

"And?" he prompts her.

"And being within the community makes you part of it, whether the board of directors or the doctors like it or not. It's prone to issues, I know, but the doctors in my hospital have been helping a lot of people." Suddenly, there's a sparkle in her eye.

"How so?" he has always enjoyed this: making her relax and seeing how passionate she is about a cause.

"Our hospital in New Jersey has a free clinic." she sees how he raises both his eyebrows. "Before being-before getting to where I am now, I talked to a lot of the stakeholders, to the community. It's a pain to regulate, but in our own way, we help people." There's a look of tenderness that he sees in her eyes, and Phillip can't help but be drawn in. He leans into her, but not too much so as to make her uncomfortable.

"Really! A lot of these people who come know our reputation. Sure, they go to other hospitals. But we have a reputation. Of course, it was hard. Especially when we first opened the clinic to the public." she sets her fork down on her plate. She's finished more than half of her salad. "No one was coming to the clinic at first, and everyone who got involved thought it was a mistake. But then, people started coming in. I was one of the first doctors to treat freely, and this man… He had his daughter with him. He told me how intimidating the hospital was. When he heard that the free clinic actually existed, he rushed to us."' She was beaming now, her free hand moving.

"What happened?" Phillip's voice was softer now.

"His daughter, she was five. She had diabetes and her father was looking for cheaper alternatives to the insulin that was prescribed. He was holding her and she was in pain. Luckily, I had been reading a journal years ago on insulin alternatives and talked to diabetic patients who started using them. We had them in the hospital so I wrote them a prescription for it. They came back to thank me months after." She looked down at her lap.

"What was her name?"

"Jennifer Brown." the makeshift ice pack fell to the floor from her hand. "Oh, sorry. I'll get this." she begins to bend down, but Phillip is quicker than she is. He wipes what's left of the ice and the paper napkin on the floor and places it on his empty plate. They're physically close, and it takes Cuddy by surprise. Their shoulders touch and she shivers involuntarily.

"You're ready for this," Phillip assures her. He checks his watch again and nods at her.

* * *

Phillip doesn't tell her that he would be watching her present. He waits for most attendees to fill the room, before choosing a strategic position so as to be inconspicuous. And he watches the audience. He watches _her_. The audience, he observes, aren't bored at all. They're leaning in towards her, and he doesn't really see anyone dozing off. He's pleased. He's more pleased as he looks towards the stage.

He doesn't see her glance at her paper once. She's on a roll, and there's a looseness about her, as if something's been unhinged. She knows when to make her audience laugh, and she knows when to be earnest about her speech. She's oblivious that he's in the same room, and he watches her. After the question-and-answer portion begins, he discreetly slips out.

Phillip smiles.

* * *

Cuddy had always thought that dinner in a medical conference was a paradox. Dinner was usually the busiest event in a conference. Not only was dinner the venue for the most number of doctors (and in this case, biotech company reps) to appear, it was also a means for expanding one's professional network. Sure, there was breakfast or lunch. There was also the actual conference session. But dinner was unique in atmosphere. No one was busy preparing for presentations; everyone wanted to get some rest. Which means that it was time for mingling. In that sense, dinner was also the most relaxed event.

In her case, dinner was more of the former.

"Doctor Cuddy! I really enjoyed your presentation. I was hoping to talk to you about the free clinic. Mind if my colleagues and I join you for dinner?" a woman in her fifties approached Cuddy's table. She had a handful of people with her, as well. "I'm Doctor Anne Cruz from Boston."

"Oh! Thank you so much! Please sit down, Doctor Cruz." Cuddy gestures towards the other seats.

She should be pleased. Instead, she was mildly disappointed. A number of doctors had already talked to Cuddy as dinner began. She was feeling restless and energetic; the presentation had been a success. But the one person she wanted to be there wasn't here. She chose a table away from the crowd, hoping to see Phillip. She deliberately walked across the dining hall before eating, searching for him. After she had her tray of food, she scanned the room again. Still, there was no sign of him.

She wanted to talk to him, to thank him for what he did during lunch. Only after the question-and-answer portion of the presentation had she realized that he had actually been helping her. Of course, the banana, the ice, and the wine were obvious. But then, he began asking questions about her presentation. She didn't know if he was being subtle, if her nerves were shot during that time, or if it was a mix of both. She didn't notice what he had been doing during lunch.

And now, he wasn't there.

As she listened, she makes up her mind. She had to find him.


	4. Stalking Memory (Clinamen)

**Notes:** I should be unambiguous about this work: this is not a House/Cuddy story. I'm writing this story to examine their relationship instead. So, if you're not comfortable with the Cuddy/OC pairing, please stop reading now.

Also, I've never written explicitly 'happy' endings for my works, fan fiction or otherwise. John Updike's "A&P" is a stroke of genius.

* * *

THE apparition of these faces in a crowd,  
Petals on a wet black bough  
 _-Ezra Pound, "In a Station of the Metro"_

But out of that swinishness there was bound to come reaction, and out of the reaction there was bound to flow a desire to re-examine the whole national pretension-to turn on the light, to reject old formulae, to think things out anew and in terms of reality.  
 _-H.L. Mencken, "The American Novel"_

* * *

 **Four: Stalking Memory (Clinamen)**

It wasn't obsessive, really, what she was doing.

Cuddy read all the brochures and noted when he would be presenting and where it would be held. She weighed her options and assessed which presentations she could opt to miss, maybe one or two, just to see him. She wasn't surprised when she read the descriptions from the brochures. Phillip was still a world-renowned geneticist, but he was here representing a biotech firm. She'd heard of the company before, but she wasn't familiar with it. Curious, she searched for him on the internet. He was now head of development at a Swiss biotech company. She wondered why he was here, though. Was the company branching out here? Does this mean that he would be back for good?

She browsed the results for him a bit more, and mentally traced his whereabouts after she stopped checking on him. He had been doing research all over Europe, in Hong Kong, and in Singapore all this time, and even managed to be involved with a biotech company. She couldn't help but get worried about him. All these must have taken a toll on him. She _needed_ to see him.

When she woke up on the second day of the conference, she checked her calendar on her phone. Her schedule was set for today. After some stretching, a bath, and dressing up, she took an elevator down to the dining hall for some breakfast. Phillip wasn't there. She decides to attend the morning presentations she had been meaning to attend. She was fascinated by all of them, and was impressed by how the conference was organized. If yesterday was centered on communities, today was all about the macro; the larger picture. She took down notes, asked some questions, and mulled over how that would affect her hospital. She had been so engrossed with the sessions that 12.30 took her by surprise.

As lunchtime comes, she prepares herself. She checks her phone for the schedule, finishes her aglio olio, and attends two presentations. Again, she takes down notes, asks questions, and mulls over solutions. She was systematic, methodical. The end of the two sessions take her by surprise again and even if she has prepared, she realizes that it isn't actually the case. She doesn't know what she wants; she doesn't know why she's doing what she's doing. All Cuddy knows is that she needs to see Phillip again.

 _Screw it_ , she thinks.

* * *

She's at the back of the conference hall, since she lets doctors, hospital representatives, and company reps take their seats. This is her tactic: she doesn't want Phillip to see her. As he begins talking, she's careful at first. She tries to convince herself that she just wants to see how he does, nothing more. She discreetly looks at the members of the audience, and she isn't surprised to find that they're giving him their full attention. They laugh at his acerbic comments, and they seem to be convinced about what he's trying to tell them.

He doesn't have crib sheets with him. Just a remote for his slides. She focuses on him now, and she's drawn to him. He's always been like that, even in med school. It used to make her furious; it used to make her push herself more just to beat him. There had always been competition between them, rooted in academics. When they started seeing each other (and fucking each other senseless), he drew her in. Now, he still has that impact on her. She exits the room politely, anxiety and panic in her mind.

She sighs and bites her lip.

* * *

It's half past six. And Cuddy is feeling restless again. This time, it isn't because of victory. This time, it's her impending doom. It's overly dramatic, she supposes, but that will do.

As she reviews her paper for tomorrow, she's a bit frantic. She's presenting right before dinner, and she knows that it will be a tough crowd. Tomorrow's theme is on women, and she's second-guessing her presentation. She knows that what she chose is a difficult topic, because she deals with difficult situations daily. More specifically, she deals with a difficult man daily. Cuddy thinks of House, and hopes that he hasn't been causing more trouble. She knows that Dr. Taylor is competent; she trusts him. It's House she doesn't trust.

She misses him, and that thought adds to her agitation.

"Hey. I need to sit down. There aren't any tables left." Of course. It's Phillip. He has a tray that's practically a sampling of the whole dinner buffet. She can't help but stifle a snort. She pulls him a chair beside her own and he sits down. He sets his dinner tray on the table. "You look worried," he casually remarks as he puts a napkin on his lap.

"That's because I am," she can't help but be more honest when he's around. "Do you have some sort of radar? Because you practically appear whenever I'm worried," Cuddy tells him. She moves her paper on her right side so she could give him space for all his food.

He has three plates. Two are for mains and entrees, while one is reserved for a helping of fruit. "I don't think so. You don't. You're always surprised when you see me," Phillip gives her a look. It's disorienting. "So I guess, a more apt metaphor for me would be an F-117 Nighthawk," he continues.

She decides to acknowledge the fact that she hasn't a clue when he's near her these past two days. Something's off. "Yes, you're a prime example of stealth aircraft," she says dryly. She resumes eating her trout. It was a bit spicy, and she liked it.

"I'm unusual and I'm all angles and edges? I'll take that as a compliment," he grins at her. She looks away, smiling. "I think I should've alluded to a submarine, though," he says with more than a hint of lasciviousness.

She bites her lip and looks at him. She chooses not to flirt and lets a few seconds pass. She hasn't anticipated how complicated this will be. She feels a palpable longing for him, and she pushes the thought away quickly. She takes a sip of her water.

"What's with all the anxiety?" Phillip was deftly cutting what looked like chicken with his fork and knife.

Before she can stop herself, she says, "I…I'm doubting my capacity on a topic I'm supposed to be an expert on. I'm not." She always hates how insecure she gets, how she always tells him, and how helpless she is like this.

He stops eating for a moment and swallows his food. Cuddy glances at his throat, then looks away again. "Then don't be an expert. You're the last speaker for tomorrow, right?"

"Unfortunately." she plays with her fish, swirling it around in its light sauce.

"Ever heard of ethos, pathos, and logos? I'm sure you have," his voice is a bit raspy, and Cuddy feels him looking at her.

"Yes. It's Aristotelian rhetoric," she risks and locks her eyes with his. "Ethos is credibility, pathos is the affective aspect, and logos is more intellectual. It's argument," she says all of this automatically, easily.

Phillip has a hint of a smile on his face. "And I'm sure you've read why they're all related."

Cuddy stops playing with her food. "Well, if you need to persuade your audience, they need to believe you. If you're not credible, if you don't move them, or if you don't appeal to their logic, you can't convince them. Are you saying that I need to emphasize them?"

He answers her question with his own question. "What's your topic?"

"Power dynamics, gender roles, and female leadership in a private hospital," she involuntarily places her hand on the paper she had been reviewing.

"I already know that." Phillip knows the title by heart now. "But why are you credible? Why will you, as you said so yourself, move them? What will the appeal to the mind be?" He moves closer to her, lazily placing his chin on his hand.

"You're making it sound like I'm running for office," she chuckles. She doesn't seem to be fazed by his closeness. "But I get your point. Running a hospital is great, but it's more challenging for women. You're constantly the subject of scrutiny. People always wonder if you've slept your way to the top. God, there's always some bet running at the hospital or some wild rumor."

Phillip furrows his brow. "About what, exactly?"

Cuddy is tactful, and thinks about what she will say next. "I have this…head of diagnostics. Remember Greg House?"

"Of course. You told me about him back in med school when we were together. Then you told me about him before we, um…Wait," Phillip is surprised. "He's working for you?"

"It's been a long time," Cuddy begins, defensive. "He's…something. He makes lewd comments about me whenever we see each other, which is every day. He's hard to control, he's obstinate, and he's brilliant." Cuddy's thoughts turn to House. He's infuriating, he's challenging, but she's grown fond of him. She takes a bite of her trout.

"Someone you've always liked. And someone you respect," Phillip's tone is neutral. He thinks that there might be something going on between his ex-wife and Greg House. It doesn't necessarily have to be overtly sexual. "Why don't you talk about that, then? I'm sure you've written an excellent paper, as usual. Just bring him into the mix." He gets back to eating, but he's lost his appetite. He hears her laugh softly.

"You're doing it again," she remarks playfully.

"What?" he says, feigning innocence. He doesn't look at her.

"You're helping me."

His eyes find hers. They're bright, he finds. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Honestly, I don't know. All I know is that I want to thank you," Cuddy's voice is low now.

"I saw you during my talk-thing," Phillip confesses.

Cuddy starts blushing, her cheeks rosy-pink. So she got caught. "I was at the back!"

"I had my glasses on. You left early," he teases her and nudges Cuddy with his elbow.

Her blushing reaches her neck. He did look damn good with them on. "Oh. I-"

"Don't worry. I left early too. Yesterday."

Cuddy's touched and flattered. He was being sweet. So she wasn't the only one stalking or being borderline creepy. "Phillip, you came to check on me?" Cuddy smiles warmly.

She's gorgeous, he thinks. "You didn't see me?" he says in mock-hurt.

"I didn't wear my eyeglasses," she doesn't miss a beat. They both burst into laughter.

Her eyes are dancing, and she's closer to him now. Phillip wants to kiss her. He's always loved it when she's like this. He's the first to move away, pushing his plates and carelessly returns his napkin. He feels hurt, jealousy, and wistfulness.

"Talk about Greg House. You'll kick ass again." he stands, gives her a smile, and walks away, his hands in his pockets.

As she watches him go, she's strangely sad. He didn't even say good night, she thinks. She tries to finish her dinner alone, but she sees his leftovers. He was able to finish three-quarters of only a single plate. That was odd.

He didn't even have fruit. She replaces her plate of fish with his fruit platter. She picks up a strawberry with her left hand and eats it, licking her fingertips.


	5. Stalking Memory (Towards Reification)

**Notes:** Thank you, mstimekeeper, for the heartwarming review. I'm working on this every night and I'm always thinking about the possible permutations and scenarios.

This chapter has a sexual scene.

* * *

THE apparition of these faces in a crowd;  
Petals on a wet, black bough.  
 _-Ezra Pound, "In a Station of the Metro"_

But out of that swinishness there was bound to come reaction, and out of the reaction there was bound to flow a desire to re-examine the whole national pretension-to turn on the light, to reject old formulae, to think things out anew and in terms of reality.  
 _-H.L. Mencken, "The American Novel"_

* * *

 **Five: Stalking Memory (Towards Reification)**

Dinner with Phillip cleared her head. For the second time in the conference, she breezed through the paper she wrote, adding some notes. Cuddy was feeling her usual nerves that always came with pressure to perform. Her nerves weren't driven by panic though, all thanks to Phillip.

Although she was thinking of House for her presentation, she thought of her ex-husband in the bathtub. She still couldn't figure out why he was here. Sure, when he'd been presenting, he'd confirmed that the biotech firm he's a part of was expanding its base. But there had to be something more, something personal. Maybe he was with someone else. The mere thought made her shudder. That didn't add up, though. Back in med school, he refused to flirt with other women when he had a girlfriend. But they hated each other then. When they were dating, though, he had been faithful. Maybe he'd changed.

His face had changed, she thought idly. He looked better now, if that was possible. His hair wasn't as lush as it had been, but it wasn't thinning or balding. He had more lines now, but she preferred that. It suited him well. He was more handsome than he had been before. He wasn't clean-shaven; there was now a hint of a five o'clock shadow peppering the areas around his mouth. She bites her lip as she thinks of his mouth. He used to smoke before. And although she hated it when he did that, she secretly loved the taste of menthol on his tongue. She brings her index finger to her mouth and sucks on it slowly. His eyes haven't changed. They have never been a bright shade of blue, or an electric shade either. They were darker, but still bluer than her own. As she sucks on her finger, she runs her other hand over her breasts.

Cuddy should be bothered, but she's more turned on than worried. She gets up from the tub, pulls on the drain plug, and dries herself carefully with a towel. She's distracted as she rubs lotion all over her limbs, slathers on some moisturizer on her face, and brushes her hair. She climbs on her bed when she's done with her rituals, enjoying the feel of the sheets on her bare skin. It's cold, but she doesn't feel it.

She lays down on the pillows and thinks of Phillip. She has an image of his tongue, wet and hot and skillful. She sucks on her index finger again. She thinks of his hands; she'd love to feel them again. Her moist finger teases her nipple, and the bud begins to blossom. She remembers his eyes. He had always been intense. Her other hand finds her pussy. She isn't dripping, not yet, but her sex is throbbing with excitement. As she sensually rubs her breasts with her right hand, she touches her labia lightly.

Cuddy thinks of Phillip's body: it was still athletic, it was still tastefully muscular. She used to love the feel of his broad chest, as it pins her to the bed or as she feels it against her breasts whenever she's riding him. There's light hair on his chest and on his stomach, and she wonders if the hairs have gone a bit gray. His limbs are strong; they always had been. She thinks of his cock, proud and thick, and wanting her. Her nipples are sensitive and hard now, and she's alternating between touching them and sucking on the fingers of her right hand. Her left finds her clit, but she doesn't want to come. Not yet. So she teases her clit, wanting to go over the edge.

He's brilliant, extremely intelligent. He's competitive and highly stubborn. But he can be sweet and vulnerable. He can be sweet and vulnerable, like he had been these past two days. And he knows her so well. Does he still know how to make her come? She wishes that she had more than her hands and fingers company tonight. She imagines licking his cock. She imagines herself on her hands and knees, under him, or above him-any position for that matter. She imagines his tongue and his fingers on her pussy. She imagines the tip of his cock, teasing her pussy. Her finger enters her opening, and she gasps. She's back to sucking her right index finger. She needs more. A second finger accompanies the first, and she moans loudly, wantonly. She finds a steady rhythm, and her right hand rubs her clit. She imagines his eyes, how his pupils dilate and how his irises darken. A third finger pumps inside of her, and she's _so_ wet. The room smells like her heady musk.

She imagines kissing his mouth and she screams his name. She's panting as she calms down.

Cuddy sleeps peacefully that night. Guilt will come tomorrow. It always does.

* * *

She's nervous, more than when she had been two days ago. She doesn't really show it, though-but Phillip knows. To an ordinary member of the audience, it seems as if Lisa Cuddy's merely questioning her expertise on a topic. For Phillip, he's convinced that it has more to do with using Gregory House as an example. He's uncomfortable; his ex is smitten with another man, even if she'll deny it. Of course, he knows that he doesn't have a claim on Lisa, not anymore. The filing of their divorce papers had certainly made sure of that.

She's speaking now, and although she's unsure of herself, she has an easy charm about her. A charm that's sexy, self-assured, yet self-effacing all at the same time. There are more women than men here, Phillip notices. He turns his head back to the stage and like he always is (was, and always will be), he's fascinated by her account. Lisa talks of how graduating second in her class, in AOA, didn't really help matters in doctors' professional perception of herself. She tells the doctors in the conference hall that it is difficult to be perceived as someone knowledgeable, as someone worthy, especially in this profession. She tells them of how hard it had been to be Dean of Medicine and that it's harder now that she has to constantly perform well.

She mentions specific situations, and then she comes to discussing Greg House. The doctor _is_ well-known, and this earns her laughs. Phillip sees that she's comfortable now, just because she followed his advice and talked about Dr. House. Phillip sighs. She moves on from the topic, and proceeds to wrap up her presentation. During the middle of the question-and-answer portion, he slips out quietly again. Good thing he was at the back of the hall.

He doesn't know, though, that Lisa Cuddy sees him exit the conference hall.

* * *

Cuddy feels a strange triumph as she sips her Grey Goose martini. She's performed well yet again, and though she's pleased, she somehow feels hollow. She thinks of how she doesn't have anyone to share her victory with. Sure, there's House, but he isn't exactly here at the moment. If he was with her, he'd probably say something disparaging. Still, she enjoys him, in spite of and because of him.

She wonders about Phillip, though. Cuddy felt her heart ache just a bit when she saw that he had been leaving. At dinner, he had been telling her to talk about House. He seemed slightly disappointed, and the fact that he didn't finish his food was telling. He'd always had an appetite, and she chuckles to herself at the memory.

Cuddy drinks some more, and finally, the guilt sets in. She's guilty because she came (intensely, she added) to the thought of him before bed last night. She's guilty because she was the one who'd ended their relationship, she was the one who'd asked for the divorce. She's guilty because she's confused and he's back. She's guilty because she wants Phillip.

As her thoughts drift anywhere and everywhere, she looks at the entrance to the hotel bar. And there he is. She wants to laugh; she feels as if she's summoned him to appear. He spots her, and takes a seat beside her. There's a rosy flush on her cheeks and her neck, and she's thankful that she's wearing a white button-down and not something more revealing.

"Is this a celebratory one-woman party?" he asks her, smiling mischievously. He asks the bartender for a whiskey sour, and raises his glass to her. "Kinda sad, don't you think?" He takes the cherry to his mouth and eats the fruit, placing the stem on a paper napkin. He doesn't have his suit coat on, she notes, and the sleeves of his button-down (also white) are rolled up carelessly, his forearms showing.

She refuses to be distracted by him. "If it is, I don't remember inviting you," Cuddy raises a single eyebrow. This earns her a smirk from him.

"If I remember correctly," he tells her as he takes a sip of his drink, "you were thanking me last night for helping you. So I should've probably been invited."

Her flush turns into a deeper shade of pink. She isn't sure if it's because of her drink or because of her embarrassment. If Phillip notices, he's definitely being discreet about it. "If _I_ remember correctly," she begins, mocking him. "you're not even supposed to drink. At all."

Phillip looks away from her and shrugs. He _does not_ want to talk about this right now. Or at all. Or ever. "I'm channeling Ernest Hemingway," he says, as he takes a long sip of his drink.

Cuddy's amused and a little irritated. He's supposed to be on a number of drugs. "Hemingway liked mojitos, not a whiskey sour," she reminded him. She drinks her martini and glares at him.

As if sensing that he would be given one of her death-glares, he faces her and says brightly, "A mojito is what I'll be ordering next!"

He's unfazed by her ire, she thinks. And she's all the more irritated. "When I told you that, I didn't actually mean that you should order more drinks," she dryly remarks, eyes rolling. She wants to know how he is, though, and she tries to coax him. "Phillip…" she continues, her voice losing the hardness or the sarcasm.

Phillip shrugs it off and ignores her. "Lisa, this is your celebratory party. Which means that there should be drinking," his voice is falsely cheerful. "Sad, though, since we're the only ones invited," he muses.

Cuddy gets the message. He needs his space. And time, probably. So she relents (just for a short while). "Fine," she huffed, nursing her drink. If that's how he wants it to be. She doesn't look at him, but at her nearly finished drink.

She feels him nudge her arm with a sharp body part. Probably an elbow. "I take it that your second presentation went well?" Phillip moves away from the topic, wanting to get her feedback.

She quirks an eyebrow, and glances at him sideways. "I should ask you that. You left before I was done." Cuddy finally finishes her drink. She decides that the martini would be her first and only drink. So much for a celebration.

"Did I?" he says casually. It's his turn to finish his whiskey sour. Phillip refuses to look at her. "It's not as if you wanted me to be there, so…" his voice fades into a whisper. He'd always been uncertain of himself and tonight was no exception.

She surprises him by telling him earnestly, "I wanted you to be there." She hopes that she could make him look at her, to see that she was indeed being serious and sincere.

"It seemed as if you wanted a certain Greg House to be there, not me." There's a certain defeated tone to his voice, and Cuddy realizes that she hit the jackpot. So he had been hurt. Still, she thinks of House.

"He'll just make fun of me," she says hastily. Upon hearing her say this, he finally faces her again.

He tips his head to the side, looking at her with intensity. "Huh. You're not denying it."

"Yes, I like him. Is that so bad?" she feels like a schoolgirl with a crush, but her mind goes back to how affected Phillip was. Is. "Am I not allowed to…like other men?"

"I'm not saying that." Phillip isn't defensive, though. He's oddly apologetic.

"Well, you were implying it," she says with certainty. Cuddy narrows her eyes and folds her arms.

He puts his palm on the back of his head. It's always been a habit of his. "Sorry about that. I keep forgetting that you're actually my ex-wife." Before she can even process what he'd just said, before she can react, he adds, "Sorry for going all caveman and uh, being jealous." Phillip's rubbing the back of his head now.

It takes her by surprise, this admission of his. She relaxes and unfolds her arms. She places them on the countertop. "It's okay. If you're actually with someone else, I'd be, too," she admits without thinking. She mentally cringes at her statement.

"I've been with other women after we ended it," he's restless. Although he's stopped rubbing the back of his head, he balls his fists. His fingers are fidgety.

"Really?" she doesn't know if she's threatened or curious or both. She hopes that her voice won't betray her. "And you've been in serious relationships with them?" Cuddy blocks the thought of Phillip kissing different women or sleeping with them. Why her heart races, she doesn't want to find out.

"I wouldn't call them serious." He stops fidgeting, as if realizing something. "Hey, I thought we were celebrating?" he says suspiciously.

"We are! And we're catching up!" She'd probably said this too loudly. She wants to kick herself at that moment.

"We're catching up by me telling you how many women I've slept with?" There's amusement in his tone, and a single eyebrow of his pushes upwards, as if accusing her. He smiles knowingly.

"Fine. If you must know, I've been with other guys." Now she's the one who's uncomfortable. Now she's the one who doesn't look at him. She doesn't make eye contact, but looks at her black leather pumps.

"What is this, some kind of 'I tell you, you tell me' game?" Phillip snickers. Cuddy hears him expel an 'aaaah' from his mouth. "You're trying to make me feel _not_ guilty. Don't worry, I'm not. Guilt is more your thing. Mine's self-hatred, among other things." Maybe he feels that the conversation warranted a drink. Maybe he just needs one. In any case, he orders two mojitos. He holds two glasses.

Her worry amps up a notch. She bites her lip, second-guessing how or what to tell him. "Don't you think you should slow down?"

"A mojito for the lady," he places a mojito before her on the table, invading her personal space. She doesn't know if he means to do it. Before she decides, he settles on his own barstool. "And a mojito for me!"

Cuddy seems to be aware of the faux cheer behind the second statement. "Phillip, are you okay?"

"Of course! I'm back, I'm still working." He looks at her, somehow embarrassed. "And…I got to see you." One hand is at the back of his head again, a compulsive habit of sorts that she finds endearing.

Although she's worried, a small smile finds its way on her lips. "How're the meds and the therapy going?" she continues.

He still doesn't want to talk about it, though. "Oh, you know. They're going."

He's being difficult; maybe he doesn't want to trust her. She touches the crook of his right arm with her left hand. "I'm worried about you." She keeps her hand there, and waits patiently.

Phillip sips a bit of his mojito and doesn't look at her. Again. "Still on several antidepressants and antipsychotics. I've stopped with the sleeping pills. I need a new shrink and a new therapist, though, 'cause, well, I'm not in Europe anymore." And there you have it. He's finally telling her the truth.

The hand on his arm moves somewhere, in mid-air. "You're really staying." Cuddy meant to ask this, but it came out more like a statement rather than an interrogative sentence. She recovers quickly, wanting to lessen the tension. She smirks. "I'm surprised that you've stayed in shape." She drinks her mojito.

"Yeah. I still don't know where, at least not yet," he chooses to refer to her question-as-statement. "And, I run. A lot. There's the gym and football."

Her brow is furrowed in a bit of confusion. "Football? You mean soccer?"

"Football, soccer. God, I've forgotten that I'm actually back here now," he gives an embarrassed grin and gives her a little leer. "So, you're actually impressed with my manly physique?"

She turns to her drink, hoping that he could change the subject quickly-maybe right now. "Shut up."

"Don't worry," he tells her, lightening the mood a bit more. "I mean, I thought about you last night."

A blush finds its way again, blooming on her face and neck. Well, she remembers what _she_ did last night. So as not to give him a clue, she reverts to what she knows best: being unimpressed and sarcastic. "Let me guess. While in bed. Or in the shower." She rolls her eyes automatically.

"That's beside the point!" Phillip chuckles, his voice low and raspy. After a moment, drink in hand, he decides to be serious. "I actually wanted to tell you that I'm dealing with… _it_ ," he says. He's having a hard time with appropriate euphemisms. He's a bit ashamed, and that has never really gone away from him.

Cuddy's suddenly concerned and relieved. Relief washes over her because he's actually being honest with her again. Concern has always been there; she'd been with him back when he was at his lowest. "Have you been having dissociative episodes?"

"Not that frequent. It's the usual, though. I can't feel my fingers, or anything, really. I talk to myself a lot," Phillip discloses, but he's looking at the floor. Cuddy feels an urge to hold him. "Of course, depressive episodes aren't unavoidable. So's a hypomanic episode or two." He gets a distant look.

"Yes, and having alcohol clearly helps." She can tell that he's let his guard down; she takes advantage of it. She quickly grabs his mojito from his hand and places it safely within her reach. She notes the amount of space between her mojitos and Phillip. If he wants a drink, he'll have to lean into her.

Now he's the one who rolls his eyes. He smiles, feeling a bit guilty and feeling grateful that she's here with him right now. "It's been hard lately since we're expanding. I've been overwhelmed," he's locked eyes with hers, his hands now on the bar's countertop.

She can't resist it, so she places her smaller hand on top of his. "You know, you haven't really surprised me at all. I always knew you'd be great." She's glad that they're making eye contact. She means what she says. "I mean, you're head of development for a biotech firm and a geneticist!"

He's pleased but uncomfortable with her compliments. He chooses to tease her instead, not pulling his hand away from her grasp. "Wait. I never mentioned specifically what my designation is. You've been doing some research on me!"

"As if you haven't done the same," she returns, her lips fighting a smile.

So they're both stalkers of each other. Phillip and Cuddy share conspiratorial smirks. Phillip then decides to come clean. "Fine. I've been faking. I actually knew that Greg House was working for you. Among other things."

She isn't surprised. She urges him to go on, sipping her mojito. "Like?"

His other hand moves mid-air. "Like how you pushed the free clinic idea. Or created the diagnostics department." He's really impressed. He teases her again. "You've made quite a name for yourself, second-youngest Dean of Medicine and first-woman. Not bad. Considering." He wishes that he had a drink in his hand.

 _Oh_. _He did not just go there_. She's annoyed and amused. "Considering what? You bastard!" This makes her move her hand from his. She slaps his arm forcefully.

Phillip enjoys this. "I remember you graduating second in our class," he nods. He knows. He knows that this is her sore point. He still pushes her buttons, though.

She presses her lips for a second. "Fuck you," she tells him menacingly.

Of course, he isn't scared. "I'm impressed. I made you swear twice!" A huge grin is on his face instead.

Cuddy crosses her arms. "Fuck you, you bastard. So you graduated top of our class. It was by decimal numbers." She was pouting now, and he wanted to lick her bottom lip.

He laughs loudly, mirthfully. "Okay. That was twice in just one sentence! As for our GPAs, the disparity was one-point-zero-seven-eight." his nostrils flare a bit. "Just wanted to remind you." He's patronizing her; he's being intentionally condescending.

"You're a bastard," she points her finger at him. "And for that, I'm punishing you." She chugs down both mojitos, and wipes her mouth delicately with a paper napkin. "Stand up," she commands him.

"What?" he asks her, clearly confused. What the hell is she trying to do?

"Just do it."

She's bossing him around, and he lets her. He gets to his feet, and before he can react to stop her, she surprises him. She grabs his wallet from the pocket of his dark trousers. It's a side pocket. His mouth opens and he's at a loss for words, but not for long. "Hey! That's my wallet!" He moves to get it back, but she puts the leather wallet inside her clutch, zipping it shut. She holds it firmly. Why hasn't he noticed that while they were talking?

She narrows her eyes at him. "And you're not having it back, you drunk." She shakes her head.

His eyes are wide and he's breathing quickly. "I'm not the one who's had a martini and two mojitos. Besides, haven't they taught you to be kind to the mentally ill?"'

There's a flash of pain in her eyes. She wants to tell him that it doesn't bother her. So she does. "You know, Doctor Roth, I'm proud of you. You've always been brave. And you've always been a great doctor. Don't forget that."

It hits Phillip like a bullet train. He sits on the bar stool again; he can't even respond. His heart wants to burst at this very moment. They're silent for a while.


	6. Moving Away or Stasis

**Notes:** Frankly, the reviews (positive or otherwise) surprise me. I didn't really expect anyone to read what I've written. So, well, to the persons reading, I apologize. Academics and the state my country's in are huge tasks I haven't really anticipated. Thank you for those who've been reading.

* * *

THE apparition of these faces in a crowd;  
Petals on a wet, black bough.  
 _-Ezra Pound, "In a Station of the Metro"_

But out of that swinishness there was bound to come reaction, and out of the reaction there was bound to flow a desire to re-examine the whole national pretension-to turn on the light, to reject old formulae, to think things out anew and in terms of reality.  
 _-H.L. Mencken, "The American Novel"_

* * *

 **Six: Moving Away / Stasis**

They lose their footing for a bit, because it's been a long time. The silence that threatens to push them away from each other is traded for an awkward beginning. They'll stumble, but they'll brush it off. They'll get their rhythm back-that's who they are.

"Early day tomorrow-" he begins simultaneously with her telling him, "I'm tempted to skip-"

Phillip and Cuddy both pause, lips parted, but they just laugh. They acknowledge how their conversation turned out to be, and they both find it funny.

Phillip ignores the ladies-first rule since it doesn't really matter anyway. He wants to risk it. "I was worried that you'd need to get up early," his left shoulder lightly bumps her right. If he had a drink in his hand, this would be easier, he thought. But again, he's risking it.

Cuddy doesn't move away from him. Maybe she's had a lot to drink, but she loves this closeness with him. She tells him what she'd meant to say earlier, resisting the urge to smirk. "I was actually telling you that I'd like to skip the first session. Or even the second." His eyes widen at her admission. That's when the smirk she was trying to stop found its way on her mouth.

His hand moves to the back of his head before he can stop it. "This is freaky," Phillip says as he rubs it. He doesn't know what his ex-wife is planning, but he has an inkling of what it is. He lowers his head, hiding a gulp. He tries to move away from her, inching away subtly.

She doesn't let him go easily, though. She lets him retreat, but her voice is lower and sultry. "I agree completely."

He's slightly in a panic, and he blurts out his next statement. "You're the one who's supposed to be concerned and I'm the one who's supposed to tell you to loosen up!" His other hand is going wild now, piercing the air, rotating.

"Oh, well. I like different," she says coquettishly.

He looks at her face; he doesn't want to play. But she's willing, so willing. He decides to tease her. "Or you're probably drunk. You've had…Let's see." The hand of the back of his head isn't there anymore, and the other hand (the wild one), wants to be of use. He uses his fingers to count. "A martini and two mojitos. Considering the fact that you're a lightweight and that the strongest drink you've probably been having lately was wine, I'd like to rest my case."

She rolls her eyes at him. "I'm _tipsy_ , not drunk."

Phillip decides to be annoying. "Okay. There's a drunkenness scale and you're moving closer to the drunk end."

He succeeds; she's feeling the beginnings of irritation. "Why are we even talking about semantics?"

"You're the one who insisted on the difference between tipsy and drunk!" He wants to laugh, to yell. Actually, he just wants to stall. He wants her. That's obvious, but what does _she_ want?

"Because I'm _not_ drunk," she emphasizes. "At least not yet," she adds, afterthought hanging.

Phillip is tense and a little wary. Excited, too. "Why are you even trying to be drunk?" His voice lowers an octave down or so.

"Maybe I want to do something," she shifts in her chair. She likes where this is going. She likes that she's in control.

"Like what? Are you trying to have me skip the conference the company I'm working for has paid thousands for? That's probably too many 'fors' in one sentence." He's stalling again, and he wishes that she'd want him-that she'd want him more than someone in her bed tonight. He wishes that she'd want something more than that.

He's distracted or he's trying to distract her. She doesn't fall for it, though. "Maybe just one or two morning sessions," she doesn't let this get the better of her. She's responsible. However, what she does and says next is reckless. "I want to do this, though."

Cuddy kisses him softly, just to give him a taste. She tenderly sucks on his lower lip and lingers before she pulls away. She gives him a look. His eyes are darker and he licks his bottom lip automatically. She waits-it isn't long, and he leans into her. His hand finds its way on her waist, and he kisses her. It's still tender at first, but his tongue grazes her lip, and she opens her mouth to him. His other hand is on her neck, and she moans softly. Her hands are on his chest. She can't help it; she misses this. She misses him.

Before she can place her hand on the back of his head, he pulls away, surprising her. Her teeth run over her upper lip; she's not exactly biting her lip. Her hands return to her lap. She feels a strange, empty feeling.

He's licking his lips, savoring the taste of her on his mouth. She looks beautiful, she looks wild. There's a light flush on her face and on her neck. He's imagining her hair mussed. Her mouth is open, her lips are moist, and they look slightly bee-stung. He wants her in his bed, but he wants her back, as well. But he needs to know what she wants.

"Tell me what you want, Lise." The 'Lise' comes to him involuntarily. "Do you want this?"

"I want tonight." She's being honest. Beneath that honesty, there's a maelstrom. She does want tonight with him, but she's scared of wanting him. She's scared of wanting him, of wanting them back together. So she opts for what can be seen as a safe choice: just tonight.

He gets her answer and sighs. He looks at her earnestly. "Me, too. I want tonight."

"So why'd you stop?" she asks. There's that painfully empty feeling again, and her mind insists that it's only because they've stopped kissing.

"Because I also want tomorrow, and the days after that," his gaze is more intense now, as if daring her. "I'm not sure if you do."

She doesn't respond to this; she just clutches at the necklace she's wearing. She wants to tell him so many things, she wants to hold his hand. But she doesn't. She simply looks at the other people at the bar. She hears him get to his feet.

"I want to see where this could go." His voice is hopeful but melancholic. "But if I don't know if you want the same thing, I can't do this." She sees him shake his head.

"Phillip…" She's almost whispering.

"You kicked ass twice. Trust me. I was there," he insists. "I really need my wallet back, though." He's shuffling his feet, waiting for her. He thinks that he'll probably have to wait for her forever.

Cuddy moves to her purse, retrieves his leather wallet, and hands it to him. She thinks that he's avoiding touching her hand at all as he gets it back. He pays for their drinks and doesn't bother keeping the change.

"Thanks," she says bashfully.

"Good night, Lisa." After he says that, he walks out from the bar.

Cuddy's left sitting alone. She's lost, she thinks. But she hopes that she hasn't lost Phillip. Not again. So much for a celebration, she thinks wryly (and quite bitterly). If she were any other person, she'd be drinking herself to sleep tonight. If she were any other person, she'd know what to say. She's not, though. She's someone confused, and she's someone with an image to portray-a reputation to uphold.

"Good night," she says to no one.

* * *

Cuddy calls Dr. Taylor in the morning, and she makes mental notes to update her calendar. She's anticipating another busy week. She doesn't even ask about Diagnostics, but Dr. Taylor fills her in regardless. He goes through the departments alphabetically, and Cuddy has that sneaking suspicion that he's reading his notes for the hospital's departments. She secretly disapproves. She knows the hospital like no one else. She likes to think of Princeton-Plainsboro as her overachieving, yet needy child.

After their phone conversation, she outlines her day. She doesn't want to think or feel; she just wants to work. She was right. Guilt did come, and it came in torrents, overwhelming her. Not that it's new or unusual, she supposes. What she didn't expect was Phillip. What he said and what he asked, she replayed in her head until she drifted off to sleep.

She doesn't want to know what she wants, but it's so close it's within her grasp. _He's_ so close, but it's too real. That's why she'd just wanted last night. No expectations, just exes having a night together. That, she can handle. Them getting back together? It's more than a handful.

So Cuddy did what she was used to. She didn't look for him come breakfast time. She went straight to the morning sessions. If she can keep this up until tomorrow, she thinks she'll get back to Princeton unscathed.

Routine and certainty are her allies. Control is elusive, but Cuddy likes to think that control is on her team.

Cuddy's mistaken, though. As she walks out of the conference room, Phillip's pacing in the hallway. He's absentmindedly whistling Rimsky-Korsakov. He spots her immediately and goes still. She's determined to ignore him, so she hurries to the elevator. Phillip lets her walk away, but rushes to the stairs. He knows that the elevator is quicker than he is. It's just going one story down. Still, he moves swiftly.

When he reaches the dining hall for lunch, she's lining up at the buffet area. He proceeds to line up, too, but he doesn't let his gaze stray from her. Minutes pass, and he lets her get a table as far away from him as possible.

She's antsy and also a bit paranoid. It surprises her that she manages to finish her lunch. It surprises her that he hasn't showed up.

Cuddy is wary as she finishes the afternoon sessions of the conference.

* * *

The last session finishes early-too early, that Cuddy gets back to her hotel room, with forty-five minutes to spare. She checks her unread emails, updates her calendars (on her phone and laptop), and freshens up. As she gets back to the desk, she gets a new email.

Of course, it's from him. How the hell did he even get her email address? The brochures of the conference? While he had been keeping tabs on her? She realizes the futility of her efforts and reads his message instead.

"Lisa-

Although I know that you're having fun avoiding me (don't deny it), I'll be waiting for you at dinner. If you're not there, I'll be at the bar, drinking. If you won't be there, I'll drink some more until my meds counteract with the hard liquor. I'll probably die or get into a coma.

I'll make sure I'll write a note before I get to the bar and I'll say it's your fault. I'll include your name and where you work, so the police will have some clues.

Get your lawyer ready,

Phillip."

She grins even if she's feeling scared, annoyed, and well, blackmailed. Her mind is thinking of numerous possibilities. Option one is to give this a chance. Option two is to let this go. She thinks of permutations, of compromise. She heads off to the dining hall, still considering what to do.


	7. Penguins and the Pathos of Things

**Notes:** Things have been difficult in our country lately, so to those who are still reading this, I apologize. Thank you again, mstimekeeper for the review!

* * *

THE apparition of these faces in a crowd;  
Petals on a wet, black bough.  
 _-Ezra Pound, "In a Station of the Metro"_

But out of that swinishness there was bound to come reaction, and out of the reaction there was bound to flow a desire to re-examine the whole national pretension-to turn on the light, to reject old formulae, to think things out anew and in terms of reality.  
 _-H.L. Mencken, "The American Novel"_

* * *

 **Seven: Penguins and the Pathos of Things**

Cuddy finds herself surprised as she enters the lobby from the elevator. She finds Phillip whistling Chopin, leaning against a pillar. She isn't ready for this, and she has an urge to head back to her room. It's annoying how he easily spots her. He gives her a sort of salute with two fingers.

She wants to scream, punch him, kick him in the balls, or skin him with the dullest spoon possible. But not yet-she has to check if he's actually had a drink before anything else. "Twenty-five percent of ER admissions can be attributed to alcohol-medication interactions," she starts.

Phillip stops whistling a cross between a prelude and an etude. He folds his arms together. "Twenty-five, huh?"

"Of course you know that!" she snarls. She's calming herself, though, quickly going on autopilot. Her hand clutches at her neck; she's expecting a necklace. She needs to think quickly. "You're on antidepressants and antipsychotics. What meds are you on? Oh, god. I should check your blood pressure. Are you feeling dizzy? How's your breathing?" She could have been pacing. It would do wonders for her thinking stance.

"Let me see," he says casually. He flips a hand in the air. "Pick a benzodiazepine! Any benzodiazepine! Next, choose an SSRI-slash-SNRI."

"Phillip! This isn't funny!" Now she wants to cry. And possibly hold him. Or something.

He sees her worry; it's on her face, her voice, her posture. He can see how frantic she is, and he's starting to feel guilty for making her feel guilty. "It is, if you think about it." He decides to make the most of the situation, though. "Hell, you can even check!"

"I hope you're not drunk, you asshole." It's a reprimand, an accusation, and an expression of concern all at once. She checks him for a tell, but she can't say for sure whether he's had a drink. All she knows is that, thankfully, he isn't drunk. He's wearing a black suit jacket over a pinstriped button down. His eyes don't look like they're bloodshot-a good sign. Her fingers go to a pulse point on his neck. Her other hand finds the area under his eyes.

He lets her settle down. She deserves to be relieved. Cuddy's satisfied with the physical she's done and promptly removes her fingers from his face. "I don't have a breathalyzer with me for accuracy." she narrows her eyes at his careless comment. "Well, at least you're not avoiding me." He tilts his head to the right, as if examining her.

"I'm not-" She's flustered again. Suddenly, realization dawns on her. "Phillip Roth, the lengths you'll go…" she punches him on the chest once. She does it again, her other hand helping her do the job. She wants to do it multiple times.

"You can punch me all you want during dinner." He wants to apologize and to tell her that he's okay. He'll do that later. Instead, he straightens up. "Come on." He begins to walk somewhere.

She's confused. "Dining hall's the other way," she rolls her eyes.

Phillip stops walking and shrugs. "I know. But there's this place that serves really great ramen. Or so I've heard."

"You're taking me there?" All the anger has chosen to settle down a bit. What replaces anger is a surge of affection. And panic.

"Why the hell not?" his brow furrows. "We're leaving tomorrow."

She's unsure again. Phillip senses this, and decides that this might probably be the right time to reassure her and make her feel safe. He begins, "Lisa, I'm fine. I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have done what I did. But hey, at least we could, I don't know. Talk. While having ramen. My treat." He doesn't look away once. He kept his eyes on her while he was talking.

She's still uncertain, though. "I could skin you. I was thinking of skinning you with a spoon." She had recently read a Japanese novel where a Mongolian flayed a Japanese soldier with a sharp knife and left the soldier to die in the Mongolian desert. She's crueler, though. A spoon would do the trick.

"Do it with a chopstick. Pour some really hot soup on me first." He walks towards Cuddy and still keeps his eyes on hers. "I'm…sorry. Really." Phillip means it.

Cuddy's caught off guard. She shakes her head furiously, adamantly. "It's not your fault."

Knowing that this could potentially lead to increasing levels of guilt (which would probably lead his ex-wife into a more uncomfortable state), he tells her, "We should really go."

 _Shit, shit, shit, shit_. As much as she wants to eat alone, there's this nagging feeling that pushes her towards him. She takes a deep breath to steady herself. "Okay. So what do we do? Take a cab?"

He smiles genuinely. His wrinkles are showing, and Cuddy bites her lip. "Nah. Company car. Valet's waiting."

They walk side-by-side, briskly, past the hotel lobby, away from the demands of the medical conference. They both want to savor this time together, but they both know that they'll have to go back to their lives eventually. One of them hopes for something more. The other secretly wants to hope.

A black BMW is already at the driveway. Phillip gets the keys from the attendant and hands him two bills.

"Nice ride, Doctor," she notes. "Will you also be opening the door for me, too?" Cuddy teases him.

Phillip jogs towards the driver's seat. "I would, but we both know that you're a strong, independent woman."

She rolls her eyes and gets inside the car. She finds Phillip fiddling with the radio as he drives. He's looking irritated. He can't find a station he likes. "Need some help?" Cuddy offers. Phillip doesn't say anything; he just nods. His right hand finds the steering wheel.

She knows the routine. They've done this before. She tentatively selects a radio station, waits for a few seconds to hear his hum of approval, and goes to the next one if he doesn't. It takes them four stations before he settles on an acceptable jazz station.

He takes on a Southern accent. "Aww, shucks. Why, thanks, pard'ner."

Cuddy chuckles, amused at his silliness. Thrill overtakes her nerves. "Where are we going?" She can't settle in her seat, she finds.

Phillip hears her shift. "There's this hole-in-the-wall somewhere. Nothing fancy." He takes a turn. As an afterthought, he tells her, "It won't take long. Probably ten to fifteen minutes."

She's still uneasy, though. "If I would have known that you'll be taking me out tonight, I would've put on something more appropriate." She's wearing a dress for work; a sleeveless, cream one. She also has her heels and a purse in tow.

He stops at a red light and looks at her. He has a knowing smile on his face. "I don't think you've packed some jeans and a sweater." He's certain that she never really goes out and that she never means to go out if she means to do business.

She huffs, but only slightly. "Okay. I didn't. But you could still have just your shirt on! I'm wearing this for work!" She's suddenly self-conscious. The light suddenly turns green.

"I know. That's why I didn't change," he lied. Sure, that was partly true. But he was also waiting for her downstairs at the hotel. "Tell you what: I won't take off my jacket. Only if you ask me to. We'll get on the best-dressed list. I swear."

She wants to fight a smile, but she's touched by the gesture. "Is this a date?" she's hesitant, but curious.

"Would you jump off the car if I told you it was?" His grip is tighter on the steering wheel. What he said was a joke, obviously, but he's waiting for her to turn him down.

"Why? Last night wasn't-I mean, I-I'm just…I'm not sure." she finally settles on honesty. She's confused, but she won't lead him on. Not this time, not like last night. She mentally cringes at her actions.

He makes a sound between a 'hmm' and a grunt. "I know," he says softly, sadly.

"I'm sorry about last night," she apologizes quietly. She's grateful that the volume of the car speakers is turned down lower than he'd like.

"Okay," he acknowledges. "I know you're scared. I'm probably pushing again, so I'm sorry. I'll make you a deal, though."

"Here we go." she crosses her arms and finally leans back into the passenger seat.

"Let's just see how tonight goes. No drinks. Just us." He wants to groan. He never does things like this. He's been tempering himself these past few days, even if all he wants to do is hold her hand.

"Can I have some ground rules?" She wants to sigh and go back to bed. Or go back to Princeton, really, where she's safer.

"You make a counter-offer to my offer and we'll see." Aaah, yes. They find common ground: negotiation. He amends the bargaining, though. "Let's decide together. Promise me that, will you?"

She's not crossing her arms any longer, but hugging her frame. "I'll try."

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "Better than nothing."

It's difficult for them to trust each other. But they take a risk. As they're nearing the ramen place, Phillip Roth and Lisa Cuddy both wish that they'd have a strong drink.

* * *

The Japanese place was small, but it had a lot of customers. Fortunately, they were able to find a table for two. Fortunately, Chicago was cold that night. Cuddy was thankful for the heat from the cramped space. She peered at the restaurant and its diners and waiters, even at its walls. There were Kabuki masks on the walls, as well as an assortment of lithographs of scenes from the Noh and Kabuki plays. The tables had origami creations and condiments on them. Theirs had two tiny, adorable paper hats on them. Cuddy picked the two up carefully, and chuckled. One was red and purple. The smaller one was orange and pink. They were an odd pair, but she thought that they complimented each other.

Phillip gets back to their table and sits across Cuddy. "Ordered the gyoza for both of us, hot tea and a regular shio ramen for you, while I'll have the special shio with extra pork slices and an iced coffee for me." This earns him a glare from Cuddy. "Kidding, of course. I got myself some water. And a carbonated yogurt drink."

She narrows her eyes at him. He wasn't supposed to drink anything with caffeine at night. She resists nagging him, but, well, she couldn't help herself. "Are you still taking sleeping pills?"

"Nah." His eyes move to the paper hats on her hand. He pokes at the orange and pink hat lightly. "What's that?"

Her gaze goes to the tiny hats on her palms. "Just some origami hats. They're cute."

He takes the hats from her palm and places them on the center of the tabletop. "I can teach you how to make a penguin," he begins casually. There was a hint of something like pride in his voice.

She wants to express her surprise, but she knows that he also has strange hobbies. "Really?" she tells him, placing her chin on her hand.

"In fact, the nice old lady at the counter gave me some paper." He finally has his hands on the table, and a small pack of colored paper, as well. "I'll be bringing them back to my room so I won't be bored."

She leans towards him, hand still cupping her chin. "I see you still haven't gotten over your, how should I say this, admiration for Japanese culture." She remembers how, back when they were still together in med school, he would spend a few hundreds to get himself Japanese collectibles, movies, and, well, anything really.

He's not offended at all. It really _is_ his thing. "I'll let you watch my DVDs."

She shakes her head. "Oh, god. Not the Dragon-fighting cartoon again." He'd made her watch episodes of the show with him in his apartment. She humored him, but she made comments that made the viewing experience less than ideal. He would argue, she would counter-argue, one of them would shut the television and media system off, and they'd be off like rabbits all over the apartment.

"Dragon Ball? It's anime," he insists. "Okay, fine. It might not have been your thing. You liked the Kurosawa, though." He was fiddling with the construction paper.

She did like the Akira Kurosawa films. "That's because they're actually great. And not animated." She never really understood the appeal of Japanese cartoons. Scratch that. Not cartoons. Anime.

"Fine." He lifts a bright green sheet, and examines it. "I won't teach you how to fold paper into a really cool penguin, a box, a caterpillar, a crane…"

She straightens up and places both her hands on the wooden surface of the tabletop. "How can I _ever_ manage to get on with my life?" she says sarcastically.

"Come on, just try it." His tone is inviting, with a hint of begging in it, as well. "I'll teach you."

"Is this gonna take long?" She's being impatient, she knows.

Hoping to draw out her competitive side, he shrugs. "Depends if you're good. If you're not, we'll have to stay here all night."

She sighs dramatically. He wasn't going to back down, so she'd rather fold paper and get it over with. "Gimme." She places the back of her hand on the table, palm open.

He gives her a wide grin, and she almost finds it endearing. He spreads the construction paper on the table, as if laying down cards. "Color?"

She raises her open palm. "Doesn't matter."

His eyes narrow at her and he grunts. "You should at least try to be enthusiastic about this," his voice is flat. He lifts a teal sheet and offers it to her. "Here, have a blue one."

Her brow furrows, and pushes the blue paper back in his hand. "Don't you have a red one?"

His brow also creases. "You just told me that it didn't matter!"

Well, okay. It didn't, really. But if she was going to do this, she'd really prefer a different color. "Red, Phillip." Her palm is still open in mid-air, her fingers moving.

He clicks his tongue several times. He hands her a cherry red piece. "Bossy, bossy. I'll have the grey one, then." He carelessly places the other sheets on one end of the table, draws out a gray one, and turns it until it's more of a really neat diamond. "Okay. The tip should be on top; the paper should be diagonal, like this. Fold it in half." He does it quickly and appraises her work. "Good."

"We'll make a crease, so just fold the top of the triangle you've formed downwards," he folds his gray sheet easily, expertly. He'd been doing this for more than a decade. He inspects Cuddy's work. "Make sure the divisions are two equal halves. Unfold it again." He unfolds his, to show her.

"Okay…?" It comes out as a question rather than a statement. She'd never been good at crafts, creating art, or sewing, come to think of it. She looks at her work anxiously and at Phillip's.

"The next step is pretty tricky. I think I'd need to sit beside you." He begins to stand up from his seat, bringing the beginnings of a paper penguin with him.

Alarmed, she says a little louder, "Wait!" Her eyes are wide. She weighs her options silently but decides in a swift moment. "I mean, I'll move a bit so you can move your chair here."

She's tense, he can see that clearly. He wants to punch himself, but he just gives her his reasons. Of course, he wants to sit close to her, but she'd need assistance for what he'd be doing soon. She hasn't really done origami, if he wasn't mistaken. "I just wanna show you how the next steps are done. This is pretty hard."

Cuddy doesn't move for a second or two. "So why'd you even teach me this, if it's hard?" She's beginning to get frustrated because frankly, she doesn't see the point of this. She isn't good at it; she just wants to watch him create beautiful things.

"I know you can handle it," he assures her. He's convinced that she can do anything. He'll be there if she fails, whether she wants him to or not. He finally stands, lifts the seat, and waits. She inches closer to the wall even if it's uncomfortable. He places the wooden seat beside hers and sits beside her. Huh. He _knows_ their shoulders and limbs would touch. Pity. The space was really too small. He doesn't want to invade her personal space, for her sake. "Can you move a bit more?"

"I can probably punch a hole with my fists…" she says, sarcasm obvious in her tone. "No, I can't." She feels his larger arm touch her bare one, and begins to feel trapped.

Phillip ignores her sarcasm, but he's the one who's starting to feel uncomfortable. He helplessly looks above her head and beyond her to see if there's still some space. "Fine. Just, well, I need to get closer. There isn't much room for both of us." He feels how stiff her body is beside him. "All right. So this next part's called a squash fold. Watch what I'm doing right now. My triangle's pointed to the right. I'll kind of make a non-fold with it. So just lift the rightmost tip, like so, then gently fold most of the hypotenuse thing just until you get to the middle crease." He does it slowly, and looks at what he does occasionally. He's just looking if she's absorbing everything he's saying.

She's poised to give up. This doesn't look promising, considering her lack of expertise with…things. "Um," she starts quietly and pauses for three seconds. "I'm not very good with my hands. Can you do it again?" She wonders why she does most of the things she does.

Of course, he makes dirty jokes. He smiles wolfishly and knowingly. "I have good memories of how great you were with your hands." He still does. He clears his throat reluctantly. "Anyway, here." He shows her very slowly again, and she bites her lip in concentration, following his actions, clumsy as she does so. He waits for her to finish. He'll wait for her forever, just as long as she's willing. She finishes; their folded paper match. "Hey! You did it!"

"I did?" She asks him, and she's doubtful. She's tempted to take their paper creations in her hands and examine them as if they're scans. She's more than interested now, since she hopes she can do as well as he's doing with his origami.

"Okay, this next one," he instructs her. "So you didn't completely fold the-"

"Hypotenuse thing. Got it." She cuts him off. She's listened to him. He resists smiling like an idiot.

His cheeks feel quite hot. "Yeah. Anyway, watch what I do. Get your finger inside the unfolded part; the inside." He shows her how his finger moves beneath the first layer. "There. Smooth your finger, gently, so it folds itself on its own until you have another weird triangle." He watches her do the same as he slowly demonstrates. "You're getting the hang of this quickly," he doesn't seem surprised. "Now fold it. With conviction this time."

She snorts at his silliness and proceeds to fold her sort-of-penguin. A waiter arrives with their steaming gyoza, fresh from the pan. The smell is pleasant: it's a mix of pork, vegetables, umami, and other spices.

He wonders if she's hungry. "Lise, you wanna eat the gyoza now? I'll just finish the penguin for you," he offers her. He looks at the plateful of dumplings, at her eyes, and at what they're doing.

She surprises him by saying, "Later. After I do this. Come on. You can't flake out on me now!" She's into this now, so of course she doesn't want to stop.

He wants to tell her that he'll never, as she says, flake out on her. He'll always wait. "All right, then. Do the same thing to the other side? Just watch me as I do it, then just follow what I'm doing."

"Okay." Cuddy's brow is furrowed in concentration. Phillip wants to tell her not to bite her lip; it'll harm the delicate flesh. He's alternating between watching his gestures and his origami, and watching her. She looks adorable and yes, kissable. A minute or two passes by and she asks him silently if she's done a good job. Her eyes are unsure.

"Good job," he tells her. "Okay, so flip it over, like so. Remember the squash fold?"

She feels a bit frustrated that she couldn't even remember simple folding instructions. "No."

"It's okay," he says gently and nudges her with his shoulder. His back is hunched now. "Just follow what I'm doing. See, I'm doing the squash fold and then, I'll unfold this thing until I reach the centerline, and I'll point it upwards." Again, he takes it slowly, so slowly. "Kinda looks like a shark. So fold the lower half over. Yeah, that's it. Then, fold it lengthwise."

He smoothens his gray non-penguin and lifts it up so she can see easily. "See? It has flippers."

She giggles as she looks at his creation. She inspects her own and holds it carefully. "Yeah, it kind of does."

He lays the folded paper on the table's surface, and she does the same. "So you fold it like this, and do the same thing with the other flipper. I'll do it with you." He sees that she's learning quickly and he grins. "There you go. So now, let's make the penguin head. Kind of crease it at an angle, and then I'll show you how to do the reverse outside fold." He leads, she follows.

Cuddy's eyes widen and she smiles widely. "It's a penguin!" she says, half in disbelief and awe.

He chuckles a bit. "Not quite. We have to do the reverse fold for the beak." Again, he leads, she follows. He knows this never happened in their relationship. She'd always been free to decide. She was Woman, she was her own. "There. See?"

She folds the beak, holds the now-penguin in her left hand, and laughs "Penguins." Phillip lifts his own penguin, shows her, and then places it on the table, near the origami hats. "Why is your penguin's head bowed? Mine's regal." She marvels at her handiwork. She wants to take a picture or something.

He looks at both penguins. The grey one is indeed sort of bowing. The red one looks as if it's looking straight ahead. "Eh. Mine has a self-esteem problem."

She laughs gaily and openly. Their ramen bowls arrive, and Phillip gets the chili oil and powder, sniffing the contents. He stands up, lifts his seat, and places it across her place on the table. She wants to tell him to stay; she loves the feel of him beside her, strong and steady. Warm. Loving. She feels that empty feeling she'd grown to know so well.

The dinner's not exactly light and easy. As usual, they argue, they tease each other. Sometimes, they agree on certain topics-like stopping to pretend that they're actually keeping kosher. The dinner's not light and easy, but it fits them and their pace. Still, there's their future (or maybe, non-future) looming. They're both aware of it.


End file.
